


Brave, Interrupted

by orphan_account



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF), Video Blogging & YouTube RPF
Genre: Drabble, Fluff, Gen, Holidays, M/M, Shorts, almost gen, brainburp, this is just fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-24
Updated: 2014-01-24
Packaged: 2018-01-09 20:47:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1150636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>2nd person, Dan's POV.</p>
<p>
  <i>"Sometime in the future. It could be distant, or it could be not-so-distant. You’re both staying in for New Year’s Eve this year—not for lack of potential things to do, but just because the night felt less like a party night and more like a night to spend at home."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brave, Interrupted

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this last December (go figure) and it's just a bit of domestic-y Phan fluff I didn't initially even remember existed... I found it in a notebook and was like, hm. I could foist this upon the world, now that my last upload has a few hits. So here it is. (Cross-posted from my Tumblr.)

Sometime in the future. It could be distant, or it could be not-so-distant. You’re both staying in for New Year’s Eve this year—not for lack of potential things to do, but just because the night felt less like a party night and more like a night to spend at home, watching Disney movies and drinking wine. So that’s what you did.

You’ve had enough wine to be a bit happier than usual—you’re not  _drunk_ , there’s no reason to be drunk. You’re just happy. This situation is nice. Phil’s legs are stretched over your thighs, and he’s migrated across the couch over the course of the evening, slouching in tiny increments until he’s basically sitting in your lap. He’s warm and lovely, and you’ve had just enough wine to really appreciate his company.

_Brave_  is on the television, and Phil is lazily attempting to mimic the Scottish accents. He’s failing terribly. (You’re laughing at intervals, because Phil saying, “Ahhh, mam, eet’s jest mah  _boo_!” is never going to be not funny.) It’s creeping on toward midnight, and somewhere far, far away, there’re fireworks going off, just a faint popping noise in the distance.

Phil fishes his wineglass off the end table and drinks. “We should have nog, Dan,” he says amiably. You pat his thigh— _sorry we don’t have nog_ —and laugh a bit. Your eyes meet and it’s like…electricity. You’ve seen that look before; you’ve never seen it on Phil, though, and up until now you wouldn’t have seriously considered it. Phil’s sitting up a bit, now, nearly slopping wine over the side of the glass (“Oh, God, Phil! You’ll stain the sofa, you  _turnip_!”) as he does so.

At 11:13 p.m. on 31 December, you’re still laughing as your lips meet Phil’s halfway. It’s not the sudden urgency of  _must-fuck-now_ , and it’s not a question either. It’s not ironic. It’s fire in a hearth (setting things on fire in a hearth), it’s finally getting the last of the baubles on the Christmas tree, it’s warm socks and blanket forts and red wine and  _Phil_ , and it crashes into you that somewhere along the line, home became this.

Home became Phil.


End file.
